


Of Red Blood and Purple Tails

by Siobunny



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: (It makes sense in context), Agent Washington - Freeform, Assassination, BAMF Agent Washington (Red vs. Blue), Blood, Gen, Gunshot, Hurt Agent Washington, Injury, Maybe - Freeform, Personal assignment, Project Freelancer, The Director is troubled, Wash is just a kid be nice, Wash is on an assignment, Young Wash, he's really doing his best, please its actually not that bad, poor boi, sneezes, tbh it probably is, wash - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:54:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28849380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siobunny/pseuds/Siobunny
Summary: It was a running joke in Project Freelancer; the Director had a habit of using agents to carry out vendettas andevery single timesomething went wrong.------------Agent Washington is sent on his first assassination.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	Of Red Blood and Purple Tails

**Author's Note:**

> Word-vomit-brain-dump catastrophe? I think the fuck yes

Vines and leaves swayed gently in the breeze, rustling quietly in the dark of the jungle. The night was cloudy, so even if the planet’s two moons had been up it would have been close to the color of pitch outside. It was so dark that only large movements would have been visible. The agent made no such movements, lying perfectly still with a rifle resting comfortably in his hands. His suit controls were as low as they could get without causing him to lose concentration, and the night was so warm that he would have been invisible to heat sensors, had anyone been looking at him. His gaze was trained on a building barely visible through the thick foliage, as it had been for days.

The target glowed green through the infrared scope. He had been watching her, tracking movements, gathering information, creating a plan for the completion of his assignment. The Director had been clear, his green eyes intense with an emotion Agent Washington couldn’t place but spurred the realization that this target was personal. Very, very personal.

Wash shook his head, closing his eyes just long enough for his scope eye to stop burning. Personal targets were always trouble. It was a running joke in Project Freelancer; the Director had a habit of using agents to carry out vendettas and _every single time_ something went wrong. Georgia was proof of that. That jetpack incident was written off as an accident, but Wash wasn’t so sure. But questioning the way of things was not Wash’s job, and last time the Director had caught an agent telling jokes behind his back he had confined her to the ship for perhaps the largest operation that entire year. Wash simply did not get paid enough for that.

Retraining his scope on the target (Pireah Martin, in the middle of reading _Bloody Blues,_ a story about a young female soldier sent to the-) She moved suddenly, and Wash fought down the rush of adrenaline he always got when a target did something unexpected. She sneezed. He hated her. Making his heart leap like that was so disrespectful. No matter how much he denied it to the other agents, especially Carolina, he always had a massive surge of adrenaline every time a target strayed from their pattern, even if just for a sneeze. His brain always went through the masterlist of everything that could go wrong, all in half a second. 

She leaned back from her sneeze and raised the book again. With a deep breath, Wash decided that now was the best time to “complete the assignment,” as the Director had instructed so delicately. The guards patrolling her estate were at the farthest away they could be (which honestly wasn’t that far, but he would take what he could get), she was reading with her back to the window, neither moon had risen, and clouds blocked out the stars. He would have to wait for a week to get an opportunity like this again, a full seven days of mistakes to make and guards to be caught by. Also, he missed his shower.

He took a deep breath, took a long blink to make sure his eye was at its most clear, and moved his finger to the trigger. She didn’t move. He gently applied pressure, slowly, ever so slowly… She still didn’t move. Another deep breath. No change. One last inhale. Hold. Squeeze.

She sneezed again. Violently.

The shot was silenced, but the sound of the bullet ripping through the air seemed painfully loud. He watched in what seemed like slow motion as she leaned forward, the bullet traveling through the glass and directly into her shoulder, instead of her heart. He didn’t wait for the scream or the alarm. 

He didn’t remember standing or slinging the gun over his shoulder or taking off toward the tiny ship specifically designed for fast escape through atmosphere. The time between the shot and finding himself running headlong through the brush was gone from his memory, and for a second panic flooded his body as he wondered if he was running in the right direction. Then he saw one of his markers, a simple pile of inconspicuous stones, and relaxed just a bit. 

He remembered the Director. “Shit,” he said to the fallen log he was sprinting past. The vines dangling from it waved their assent, but he didn’t feel any better. He was going to have to explain this most recent failure, explain how he failed due to a sneeze. North’s voice rang in his ears.

“You know, something always manages to go wrong on these missions. It’s never something big, either, but it’s just big enough to completely fuck everything up. For me, it was-“

“I can hear him!” The guards. They were faster than he had given them credit for. He regretted leaving the ship so far away.

“Shit,” Wash said again, this time to a creature he had startled that looked quite similar to an Earth squirrel. It disappeared in the thick underbrush, purple tail flicking in fright.

“There he is!” Way faster than he had given them credit for. 

This time he heard Carolina. Saw her angry expression, vivid green eyes glaring at him, fist clenched at her sides. "You’re never strong enough, fast enough, smart enough, _good enough._ " _never good enough never good enough never good enough never-_

He didn’t hear the gunshot. Didn’t even feel the pain. He only noticed he had been shot when he was flying headlong toward the ground. The back of his brain lazily supplied that to throw him like this the bullet had to be pretty big, which meant blood loss was going to be an issue if he didn’t take care of it soon, and he really needed to slow his heart rate.

He hit the ground hard enough his helmet’s seals popped and it rolled out of sight. The guards were nearly on top of him, and he felt blood dripping down his arm. A continuous string of curses in seven languages ran through his brain as he tried to push himself to his feet, but it was too late. As he got to his knees a heavy boot slammed into his already bleeding back, shoving his face into the dirt.

“And just who are you?” a low, gravelly voice asked. The boot ground deeper into the wound, and Wash had to fight the shout of pain that was clawing its way up his throat. He knew if he opened his mouth there would be nothing he could do about it, so he clamped it shut and pressed his forehead onto the ground. More boots crowded into his vision, and he realized he was well and truly fucked.

“I asked you a question, boy. Who do you work for?”

“Those are two different questions,” Wash managed, and regretted it instantly as the boot ground down harder, sending sparks of white across his darkening vision. He had gone through pain simulations and had even been injured in the field before, but this was honestly the worst thing he had ever felt. His eyes felt fuzzy.

“Get up. Despite your best efforts, Miss Martin is still alive. You get to talk to her,” the man crushing Wash’s spine said, and two other guards reached under his arms and lifted. Wash knew that if they got a proper hold of him he would be done for. Tortured for information. Trapped. Dead, eventually. 

That was not the ideal scenario. As they lifted, Wash slumped, hand reaching surreptitiously for the knife tucked on the inside of his armor. It was now or never.

\+ + +

Pireah Martin heard the door open behind her as she sat in her office chair, staring at the screen displaying the entirely of her compound and the trackers of her guards. “Did you get him, Greston?” she asked of the guard, who’s tracker she had been watching on its path to the office. Honestly, one of her best ideas. Implanted trackers just next to the spine so if it was removed from the body it would indicate that the guard was dead. 

“He did,” a voice that did not belong to Greston responded. She spun around. A man in grey and yellow armor, minus a helmet, armguard, and part of his right Kevlar sleeve, covered in blood, stood in the doorway. She pressed the call button for the guards, but the man seemed unperturbed. He stepped closer and she saw a bloody hole where he was missing the armguard and Kevlar. A light was blinking inside it.

“The tracker,” she breathed. How the hell had he managed that?

“Yes ma’am.”

“Who do you work for?”

He pulled a pistol from the magnetic holster on his waist. As he walked closer, she registered how young he was. With the freckles, he almost looked like a kid. And then it clicked, and her heart dropped.

“You’re from the Project.”

He tilted his head a little, gaze intent. “Yes ma’am.” He raised his gun, and despite her terror and the dawning realization that this was it, she kept eye contact. 

“You know the Director is wrong.”

“I have orders.”

\+ + +

The ship tore out of the atmosphere. Wash grit his teeth at the pain from the pressure, wishing they would put painkillers in biofoam. Maybe he could patent the idea, make a killing. As he flew away from the planet, he played with the idea in his head, imagining what he would do if he did get a patent and the fame and fortune that went with it.

Far beneath him, the jungle blazed. A squirrel-like animal took one last gasp, purple tail twitching once and then going still.

**Author's Note:**

> BRAIN DUMP BRAIN DUMP BRAIN DUMP :DDDD
> 
> I apologize for the writing, the poor development, and basically everything including the migraine you probably now have
> 
> If you made it this far I love you!!!! Please leave a comment if you managed to enjoy this clusterfuck


End file.
